Jeepers Creepers: Sins of the Father
by SilverPilot
Summary: Spring, 1886. Poho County is a fledgling township on the edge of the Western front. A mysterious stranger rides into town harboring a dark and terrible secret. The devil is on his heels, and it wants something from him. It won't stop until it gets it.
1. Chapter 1

**(ONE)**

_Outskirts of Poho County  
__Spring, 1886_

The sound of hooves pounding the ground echoed across the night sky. The rider could see the flickering embers of candles and lanterns reflected under the moonlight from his perch atop the rough leather saddle as the majestic creature beneath him pumped its legs, muscles contracting as it moved at full speed across the open prairie, kicking up dust in its wake.

The rider swore he could almost hear the sound of flapping leathery wings mingle with the whistling wind in his ears. But he knew he must be imagining things. He hadn't seen it in nearly a whole day. He must have outrun it, at least for now. He hoped that he might find relative safety in the tiny settlement up ahead.

Or was he simply condemning the simple townsfolk ahead to a horrible, grisly fate? He knew he couldn't think like that. He had to believe that there would be strength in numbers. One man alone couldn't stop this terrible tale from unraveling into a twisted, bloody ending.

With a renewed sense of vigor, the rider kicked his heels into the horse's side, spurring the animal forward even faster than before. The horse let out a shrill whinny of exertion, its breath coming in short, sporadic gasps of cloudy mist emanating from its flared nostrils. The rider knew that he had been pushing the beast far too hard for far too long, but he had to insist on moving at this pace. He knew that the horse would be fine once it got the chance to eat, drink and rest.

The settlement ahead began to grow larger in the rider's view as he drew nearer. The rider pulled tightly on the reins, signaling the horse to slow its pace ever so slightly, reducing their gait to a quick trot rather than full-on galloping. The horse and its rider passed a couple of small ramshackle, nondescript buildings on the outskirts of the town, their uses unknown. For all the rider knew, they were long-since abandoned when the town began to colonize further inward within the settlement.

The uneven clumps of dirt and grass began to give way to a poorly carved dirt road, but it was far easier to maneuver than the hills and gullies he had been traveling across since leaving Kistle County several days earlier. The cloud of dust behind the horse began to shrink, the hooves now simply kicking up tiny mounds of dirt and dust as it clomped into the town.

The rider's beaten up old leather trench coat flapped listlessly in a slight breeze as its stead yet again reduced its speed to a slow, ambling walk. Its rhythmic hoof beats reverberated across the town, signaling the rider's approach. A couple of curious townsfolk poked their heads out of windows or doors, hoping to catch a glimpse of the mysterious stranger entering their land at such a late hour of the night.

They passed a few small houses as they reached the center of town, a tiny strip of dilapidated old wooden structures consisting of a general store, a towering inn that jutted up into the night sky like a poorly lit beacon, a tiny saloon and not much else. A deep rumbling within the rider's stomach reminded him that it had been over two days since his food rations had disappeared, and he hadn't had anything to drink in almost half that time.

He steered the horse towards a couple of posts dug into the earth and hopped off, his boots shifting slightly in the crumbling dirt. He tethered the horse to the post, noticing that a trough sat before it, half-filled with water. The horse began to greedily slurp up what was available, not caring that a thin layer of scum had begun to creep across its surface. The rider gently patted the horse's flank, silently thanking the beast for guiding him this far safely.

His spurs clicked against the old wooden steps as the rider mounted the porch that stretched across the entire front of the saloon. The lantern hanging by the swinging double doors in a rusted iron sconce was lit, its flames flickering and dancing weakly in the slightly cool night air. A distant thunderhead roiled across the black sky to the East, threatening a storm. The rider was distantly aware of the fact that the entire township would become nothing more than a giant mud bowl should the storm hit hard enough.

He pushed through the doors, his leather coat stretching and squeaking at the seams from the effort. He was aware of what a sight he must be, after riding for so many days through the open wilderness. His face was marked with a dozen tiny scratches from bramble and stray branches. His hands, rough and calloused, clenched and unclenched with jittery, unspent nerves. His coat and pants were smeared with dirt, mud and in more than one place, caked with a much darker liquid that had grown crusty and dry, flaking off as he moved, floating in his wake like macabre dust motes.

The inside of the saloon was poorly lit, a few haphazardly placed lanterns and a candelabra or two, casting withering shafts of firelight across the place. The rider noted that there were a few patrons within, each one accompanied by little more than their own private thoughts and their liquor.

One or two of them cast the newcomer with sidelong glances but didn't dare greet him or question his appearance. This place had seen more than its share of fights, most of them ending in a funeral and a widow or two left in their wake. Blood had been shed in this place, and it wouldn't be long before it happened again.

The rider slowly approached the bar, the sounds of his boot heels clicking against the wooden floorboards drowning out the muffled whispers that began to circulate around the tavern. Ignoring them, the rider took a seat at one of the rough-hewn chairs situated in front of the old bar counter, never removing his long leather trench coat. He did, however, take off the dusty old hat perched atop his head, revealing a long, straggly mane of dark, inky black hair that spilled down around his neck like a polluted waterfall.

The more intuitive onlookers with a far more curious eye could just barely make out a couple of strange dark markings that trailed across the man's neck, seemingly stretching all the way down past the collar of his thin cotton shirt.

Partially hidden by sweat-stained bangs that hung across the man's forehead were a pair of eyes that had seen their fair share of pain and suffering, betraying a lifetime of horror better saved for battlefields and nightmares. The soft brown of his corneas seemed to glow like gold beneath the weak white-orange flames of the lantern hanging just behind the bar, causing the various bottles beneath it to sparkle and glow with a surreal sheen.

A grizzled old man who was probably only in his forties but had been hardened by too many years of alcohol, gunfights and hard work approached the rider from the other side of the bar, clutching a water-marked glass in one hand a dirty old bar rag in the other. Les absentmindedly wiped the inside of the glass with the rag, despite the fact that neither one of them were going to help the other get any cleaner. His graying hair had once been a lustrous hazelnut brown, but years and years of stress and sun had caused him to loose the shine it once had, leaving behind a balding mess of gray and white tufts. His eyes darted to and fro in their sockets nervously, and he licked his dry, cracked lips. The tiny valleys and craters if his skin were cast into shadows, giving the man a rather sinister and aged look.

"Help you, sir?" the old bartender asked.

These were the first words that had been spoken to the rider since…He honestly couldn't remember the last time he had spoken with another human. It took him a few moments to process the sounds and to realize that he had been directly asked a question. The bartender stared at him with slightly hooded eyes, awaiting a response. He began to wonder if the strange, battered man was a mute.

"Water," the rider finally responded, his voice raspy and crackling.

"This here's a saloon, my friend," Les explained, sitting the dirty glass and rag down on the bar in front of him. "We only serve the good stuff 'round here."

The rider met his gaze with eyes of steel. The bartender watched with mounting horror as the man reached into the folds of his trench coat, knowing that he may have just made the last mistake of his life. There was no time to reach the shotgun mounted under the bar on the far side. He should've known this stranger was a gunslinger…

With an echoing slam, the rider pounded his fist against the bar, opening his palm to reveal several dirty coins and a couple of crumpled, rolled up bills. It was more money than the old man had seen one person carry in a long time.

"Water." The rider spoke more clearly this time, his tone unmistakable. Bring me what I want and there won't be any trouble.

"Comin' right up," Les mumbled, leaving the money laying on the bar. He moved instinctively, his years of experience taking over as he let his body move on autopilot. He was much too preoccupied with trying to figure out who this man might be and why had chosen tonight to come carousing into Poho.

He sat a glass of filmy water before the stranger who greedily scooped it up and poured the liquid down his gullet, a couple of small streams leaking through his dry lips, sluicing down his chin, tracing the odd symbols that trailed down his neck, glistening like trails of sweat.

The man finished his water, quietly sitting the glass back down next to the small pile of money in front of him. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and seemed to visibly relax for the first time in what looked like days. His entire body just shrugged in on itself, shuddering slightly. His eyes, once permanently fixed into tiny slits of concentration, slid open further, softening.

"Thank you," the rider said softly, nodding a couple of times in gratitude.

"Lester," the bartender said, pointing at himself. "Call me Les. Everybody else does. Don't bother me, none. Welcome to Poho County."

The man in the trench coat did not respond. He simply stared down at his hands, inspecting the cracks and lacerations with great interest. Les followed the man's gaze and began an inspection of his own. He whistled lowly.

"You been ridin' a long ways, feller?" he asked.

"Kistle County," the rider replied despondently. He rubbed his face, as if he were trying to stay awake, though it seemed to be a losing battle. His eyes, now that they were loose and relaxed, fluttered a few times, and for once, he looked about as vulnerable as a stray cat, finally seeking shelter from a storm.

"That's more 'n a week's journey," Les exclaimed, leaning his weight against his arms as he propped himself upon the bar with his palms outstretched. "It's a wonder you weren't skinned alive by some injuns."

"I ain't afraid of them," the man replied. "They ain't what'll get you in the dark."

Les felt a tingle run up and down his spine. Something about the way this man spoke sent tiny shivers of fear through his body. What could be worse than a swarm of injuns coming out of the night and dragging you off to God knows where to have their way with you?

"Who are you?" Les asked.

The rider looked up at him, wrapped his hands around the empty glass before him, gripping it so tight Les was afraid it might shatter within his grasp. His eyes seemed to shake with a deep, primordial fear. Eyes that had seen something so horrific, so unrelentingly terrible, that words could not express how chilling it must have been.

"A man on the run," the rider replied carefully, his voice dropping low.

Les swallowed, hard. The lump in his throat traveled down, deep down, and he could almost feel it nestle in his chest, latching onto his heart, never letting go, filling him with a sense of dread.

"On the run from what?"

"The devil," the mysterious rider said, and in his eyes, Les saw the truth.


	2. Chapter 2

**(TWO)**

Shelly Birmingham sat before the speckled mirror at her vanity, lightly brushing her long blonde hair out, running her fingers through it as she did so. She stared numbly at her reflection as Holloway stirred between the sheets on the bed behind her in the small room above the saloon that she called home these days. Sometimes she stayed at a room in the inn, but most nights she was here.

Her undergarments glowed pale white beneath the soft, supple glow of the candlestick sitting next to her at the vanity, sputtering softly from a slight draft blowing through the room from outside. A cursory glance towards the window confirmed that a storm seemed to be brewing up outside. Shelly crossed her legs at the ankles and continued to brush her hair, staring into her dead, empty blue eyes in the mirror.

"Come back here," Holloway whispered from the bed. "I ain't done yet."

"You're done when I say you're done," Shelly said back, not letting her gaze leave the reflection staring back at her. She saw out of the corner of her eye through the looking glass that Holloway had sat up in bed, his scar-ridden chest barely illuminated by the firelight. His lower half was obscured by the sheets, thank God, as Shelly really didn't want to have to witness that sight more than she had to.

"Don't make me ask twice, Shelly," Holloway threatened.

Annoyed, she half-turned in the chair she was seated upon and let her icy gaze fall upon the naked man in her bed. Soft ringlets of hair fell across her face, partially obscuring her view. She hastily blew a couple of them away, hating that she could appear so frail and weak.

"What more do you want, Holloway?" she snapped. "You got your roll in the hay. It's over, now. Go back downstairs and have a drink."

"But I didn't finish," the man whined.

Shelly rose to her feet, padding across the wooden floor, her footsteps creaking slightly as she made her way over to the bed.

"Oh, I apologize," she whispered, smiling softly. "I didn't realize. I must have misunderstood you, somehow."

Shelly inched onto the bed like a lioness, crawling on all fours across the mattress like a predator stalking its prey. Holloway grinned, awaiting more pleasures like the ones he had experienced with her earlier.

She slowly reached one smooth, slender arm under the sheets.

"That's a good girl," Holloway said breathily, revealing torn up gums and more than a few blackened spots where teeth once resided. His breath reeked of tobacco and cheap liquor.

"You want to finish?" Shelly asked, almost purring.

Holloway nodded greedily, licking his lips, readying himself. Shelly let her arm snake further beneath the sheets before she latched onto him, squeezing her fist as tightly as she could manage, wrenching her hand sideways. Holloway wailed in anguished pain, his body thrashing beneath her. With her free hand, Shelly pushed him down by the throat, silencing his cries.

"Like I said," Shelly snarled through gritted teeth. "You're done when I say you're done. Don't make me say it twice."

Holloway nodded swiftly, his choked sobs muffled due to his windpipe being severely blocked by Shelly's fist. She slowly released him from his grasp, and it was all he could do to throw her weight off of him, leaving her to tumble atop the stained sheets as he dashed for the door of her room.

"Crazy bitch!" he exclaimed, bolting out into the hall as he buckled himself up, leaving his other clothes behind. Shelly stifled a giggle as she listened to Holloway's receding footsteps as he hurried downstairs to the bar, likely to tell Les all about the travesty that had just occurred. Considering Holloway was nothing more than a drunkard with a tendency to commit petty crimes, it was unlikely that Les would give the man any time of day.

Sighing, Shelly scooted to the edge of the mussed bed, letting her pale, slender legs dangle over the edge. She glanced over at the pile of battered coins discarded on the bedside table, eyeing them disdainfully. Had it truly come to this for her? She knew she needed the money, seeing as she was left with nothing after Earl was killed more than a year ago. A young widow didn't have a lot of options in the frontier.

She slid off the bed, scooping the coins off the table, and walked back over to the vanity, opening a tiny drawer to reveal a small bag tied with a ribbon. She opened it, letting the coins trickle into it, hearing them tinkling against the meager amounts of money they joined.

Shelly had never told anyone, but this secret fund was going to be her way out of this little town someday. She'd heard about bigger places, bigger towns, even further out West, near the coast. She would go there one day and start over with a brand new life. Not the dirty, messy, confusing one she led here. This one would be different. She wouldn't be haunted by the memories of Earl and the life she had led as a deputy's wife.

She knew of a caravan that traveled back and forth across the West, carting people off to greener pastures - for a price. She would save up enough money to pay that fair, and it would take her to that better place out there that she knew must exist. Slowly but surely, this life was killing her. Already she felt that several pieces of her heart had been chipped away, mostly after Earl passed.

Closing the drawer, keeping her dreams locked within it, Shelly ambled over to her one and only window that looked out over the main street of Poho. Mostly, it was just a desolate street with little to no activity save maybe a stray dog or coyote lingering just close enough to humanity's doorstep, searching for scraps of food. But tonight she saw something else.

A horse was hitched to a post just off the saloon's porch, one she had never seen before. It stood there listlessly, glancing balefully around with large, empty eyes. Its coat was sleek and midnight black with just a few tiny strokes of white cresting its massive chest, leading up its throat. What brave soul could have wandered all the way into Poho at this midnight hour?

Curious, Shelly slipped back into the old, tattered dress she'd been wearing when she'd led Holloway up the creaky old steps at the back of the saloon to her room. She took one last glance in the streaked, stained mirror, appraising her appearance. She pushed and pulled at her hair and hem, trying to straighten herself out. This, she deemed, was about as good as it was going to get.

Hoping that Holloway knew what was best for him and had gone home to turn in for the night, Shelly left her tiny room and headed downstairs into the bar proper. Instantly, she noticed the stranger that must belong to the dark horse tethered outside, sitting solemnly at the bar, holding a small glass of water between his thick, rough palms. He was attractive, in a rugged sense, but that was par for the course when it came to cowboys and gunslingers.

Thick stubble had begun to overtake his slender facial features like thick black vines threatening to overtake a dark but strangely beautiful old house. He seemed to have an aura of loneliness around him, the likes of which Shelly felt she could strongly relate to. Not many people could sit in a room full of other people going about their lives and yet seem so utterly alone. Shelly knew exactly how that felt.

She made her way around the far side of the bar, coming inexorably close to the lonely stranger. He didn't move, didn't even seem to recognize her incoming presence. She hoped he wouldn't be able to smell the stink of Holloway still lingering around her. She could almost still taste his tobacco stained breath on her tongue as he writhed and pulsed above her.

"Awful late to be traveling," Shelly remarked as she took a seat at the bar next to the man in the leather trench coat. She propped herself up with her elbow, staring over at the stranger, trying her best to maintain a sense of innocence and curiosity. This had become like second nature to her. Smooth talking strange men into giving her their time and money had become like a hobby, one she never thought she would acquire, nor need to. Alas, there it was.

"This one ain't much for talkin', Shelly," Les said, approaching the two of them with his ever-present filthy bar rag. Shelly had known Les for quite some time, seeing as Earl had spent a lot of his free hours hanging about in this old tavern. He and his deputy buddies would laugh and cavort with each other, telling stories and bragging about their women and what they could get them to do with them in bed. Since Earl had passed, Les had taken her under his wing, despite his misgivings about her current choice of profession.

"Don't be rude, Les," Shelly admonished the old barkeep. "Introduce us properly."

"Would if I could, darlin', but like I said, this one ain't exactly a chatterbox." Les came to a stop as he stood opposite them, absentmindedly rubbing the dirty old cloth in his hands across the bar top, unsuccessfully cleaning not a single damn thing. "He told me a pretty radical story, though, didn't 'ya, feller?"

The stranger simply rose his glass to his lips, taking another swig of water.

"It ain't a story," the man said softly.

"You 'n me got business to attend to, missy," Les said to Shelly, pointing an accusatory finger towards her. Shelly feigned ignorance, glancing plaintively up at the old man. "Holloway came wailin' through here like a rattlesnake got it's tail torn off. Spewin' about how's you gave him a real what-for upstairs. How many times I gotta tell you not to abuse the clientele?"

"And what about them abusing me?" Shelly asked dangerously.

"You know I don't care for that sorta thing," Les said distastefully. "A woman enters into that sorta thing, certain things are gonna happen. All I'm sayin' is you get what you get when you play those games."

"Oh, what do you know," Shelly said, waving the old man off. He sighed and shook his head like an irritated father, then busied himself watering down some of his cheap old liquor bottles, trying to make them appear fuller. Shelly turned her attention back to the brooding stranger. "Les don't know what he's talkin' about. He's been knocked in the head a few too many times, if you know what I mean."

The stranger finally turned and faced her, pinning her down with his deep, dark eyes. Shelly felt transfixed looking into his gaze. The things she saw deep within those twin pools of brown were like nothing she'd ever experienced before.

"Pardon me, miss, but I'm not really up for socializing," he said in what appeared to be a rather polite tone, but the hidden meaning was remarkably unmistakable. Leave me alone, before you really piss me off.

"Maybe if I buy you a drink, you might tell me that story Les mentioned," Shelly propositioned, leaning closer. The stranger continued to regard her with the same blank, empty stare, freezing her in place. She began to fear that maybe she'd begun pushing the wrong man's buttons. Perhaps she'd finally gotten in over her head. She'd heard stories of women like her being killed by men like this.

"Believe me, you're better off not knowing," he finally replied.

"Man says he's got the devil on his heels," Les explained, raising his eyes from the liquor bottles for the briefest of moments. "And from what I can gather, he meant it rather literally."

"And what'd you do that got the devil, himself, so cross with you?" Shelly asked.

"It has nothing to do with me," the stranger said darkly. He pinned Shelly with his intense stare once again, waves of fear and anger flowing off of him. "And yet…everything."

Shelly could feel a strange sensation gnawing at her stomach. It was a mixture of fear, trepidation and maybe even a little bit of excitement. This man, this strange and dark, brooding man, reminded her so much of Earl. He had the same intensity about him, and Shelly wondered what could have happened to him to make him this way.

"Tell me," Shelly said softly. She waved to Les to pour them a couple of drinks, and the old man ruefully complied. In seconds, two shots of whiskey appeared before the two of them. Shelly quickly downed hers, letting the shot glass tumble back onto the bar. The man eyed his own shot for a moment, then swallowed it fast.

"If you insist," he murmured. "I'll tell you my story. But you have to make me a promise, first."

Shelly looked into his eyes, searching. For what, she didn't quite know. Answers? She hardly knew the question.

"Promise?" she asked curiously.

"Promise me that you'll believe me," the man whispered, voice so low that Shelly had to strain to hear him, despite the relative quiet of the saloon. "That you'll believe me, and possibly even help me."

"I promise," Shelly said without hesitation.

The man seemed to relax for a moment at this, as if he was about to unburden the weight of the world onto another human's shoulders for once.

"My name is William," the stranger said. "And I am being hunted…"

**Author's Notes:**

**I know that this has been somewhat of a slow start, but I am trying to get the characters all set up and established firmly before we start moving into the action. And trust me, there will be plenty of action. I have always wanted to tell a story set in the JC-universe, and I am really excited to be bringing this one to life here at FFnet. Please stick with me on this, even though it is something of a slow burning tale at the moment, but things will be heating up soon.**

**As always, please R&R!**


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